


A Fork in the Road to London

by greerwatson



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Angst, Divergent AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5949438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Divergent AU.  Instead of writing, Andrew decides to come to Bridstow to talk to Laurie in person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fork in the Road to London

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work in a series. It is followed by ["Corkscrew"](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/yuletide2014/works/2826017) and ["Long is the way and hard"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5516201).

Laurie got quietly up and headed for the lavatory.  When he returned, the post had arrived; but there was still no letter from Andrew.  Mysteriously reforwarded (more than once, from the crossings out), there was an envelope from one of his old school fellows, who was now posted ... somewhere the censor had felt it necessary to black out.  The letter was surprisingly long and chatty.  The Duty Nurse opened the doors to visitors, who filtered round the ward to the beds of more fortunate patients; but Laurie was sufficiently distracted by tales of army life to ignore the conversations.  In the next bed, Mervyn was still poring through the _East Africa Pilot_.  On current form, his mother would turn up later rather than sooner:  her attention had been waning as it became clear that the Wonder Drug’s efficacy had not been overstated and a full recovery was on the cards.

Laurie was still working his way through Carter’s abominable handwriting when he realized that a new pair of footsteps had stopped by his own bed.

He looked up to see Andrew.

It was as though the sun were suddenly pouring through the windows of the hospital.  He had not, after all, expected him to be able to wangle leave for another day or two at least.

“You made it,” was all he said.

Andrew didn’t answer, just looked at him intently, as if to delve under the skin and see the man inside with X-ray perspicacity.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked.  His voice was tense; and Laurie felt a frisson of dread.  Something must be wrong; but he could not imagine what.

“Just let me put on my boot”—for, of course, he was not wearing it in bed—“and we can go for a walk.  I do most afternoons anyway, for the exercise.”  He heard himself babbling, and felt a fool.  He hid his embarrassment by reaching down for the surgical boot, sliding his foot in and doing it up, then lacing his shoe on the other foot.

Mervyn spared him a glance as he went off; and the Duty Nurse wished him a cheery good walk.  They took the stairs, slowly; and Laurie noted absently that Andrew automatically kept to his pace without reminder.  Neither spoke until they had gone out through Casualty and down the street.  To Laurie, the route was, by now, almost automatic.  It didn’t occur to him that his daily walks with Ralph always started the same way; and Andrew didn’t comment.

“What’s up?” he said finally.

“I’m leaving for London tomorrow.”

“What?!  What happened?  Is something wrong?  Your family...?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”  Andrew almost smiled.  “No, I’m being transferred.” 

He had thought the orderlies settled in the country indefinitely.  They were certainly still needed at the E.M.S. hospital.  He said as much.

“No, it’s not that,” Andrew said.  “I asked to join Dave on the ambulances.” 

For a moment, Laurie felt jealous, then terrified.  The last couple of nights they’d been fortunate in the weather and the hospital had been spared air raids; but, when the skies cleared in London, Andrew would be in far worse danger, and not even able to go down a shelter but driving into the heart of the inferno.

“Why?” he managed to say.  Then he could have kicked himself for being so obtuse.  It was, of course, the need to prove—perhaps to the aunt and uncle who had made Andrew’s youth so difficult—that, though professing pacifism, he yet had the courage of his warrior ancestors.

Andrew looked at him, tongue-tied, and ran one hand through his hair.  Laurie’s eyes were drawn to the tousled locks, tarnished gold in the dull light of a cloudy day. 

“I almost didn’t come,” Andrew said finally.  “I was going to write, actually.  But then I thought ... that’s a coward’s way, I need to speak to you in person.”  He looked shamefaced.  “Only I’m not sure I can, really.  It’s just so....”  He trailed off with a little wave of his hand.

Laurie saw again the scraped knuckles that he’d almost missed. 

“Did you hurt your hand?” he asked idly, wondering what chore had gone awry.

He was astonished when Andrew stopped dead in his tracks, flushed, his eyes dropping in shame.  The silence went on.  Something was seriously wrong here, and Laurie still had no idea what it could be.  Yet he was unable to bring himself to ask when Andrew so clearly could not bear to say.  It dawned on him that the tableau was starting to draw the eyes of curious passers-by; but no one stopped, for which he was grateful. 

“Well, I hit him,” Andrew managed to say.

“Who?”

“Your friend Ralph.  Ralph Lanyon.”

The words echoed in a chasm of incomprehension.  Andrew had never met Ralph:  there was no way he could have hit him.  Andrew hit _Ralph_?  Andrew _hit_ Ralph?  (Andrew hit _anyone_?)

“I suppose he hasn’t told you.”  The words dropped like tiny raindrops into a leaden sea.

“No,” Laurie heard himself say.  “When did this happen?”

“A couple of days ago.  After … well, it seemed obvious that it was time for me to leave, and London seemed a good place.”

“Yes, I can see that.”  The words made no sense; but something had to be said to keep the conversation going.

“I was going to write, but....”  Andrew looked away.  “I decided to come.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Yes.  Well, it was one of the days for the bus; and I couldn’t just....”  Andrew bit his lip.  “John with the bins swapped with me.”

“That was good of him.”  Laurie couldn’t bring himself to start the questions he wanted to ask.   _What had happened?_

Andrew looked around, up the narrow street and back the way they’d come.  “Is there somewhere we can talk ... in private?  I think people are starting to notice us.”

For a moment Laurie was at a loss.  The ward was far from private.  A pub would be worse, even if it were already opening hours.  For a mad instant Ralph’s flat occurred to him; but he did not have the key.  The thought of privacy with Ralph reminded him, though, of their first conversation in the hospital, and the chapel that so few used.  Their wanderings had brought them not far from the cathedral, with its great rose window and carved portal.

Andrew was rather startled when he suggested they go in.  He muttered something under his breath, of which Laurie caught only the word “inappropriate”; but, when Laurie paused in the porch to give him a chance to explain, he simply shook his head.

The building was almost empty, save for a couple of women sitting quietly and separately, engrossed in their own thoughts and prayers.  Laurie, who had not so far visited the cathedral, looked round at the great fluted stone pillars and up at the vaulted ceiling, tempted to take the time to view it properly.  Andrew was more single-minded:  having decided to speak, he would brook no delay.  No one was in the Lady Chapel:  they settled in a pew, and kept their voices low.

“He came and told me about the two of you,” Andrew said abruptly.  “Sunday, it was.  Sunday afternoon:  I suppose he had the time off.”

Laurie had not known what to expect; but he had known from Andrew’s behaviour that it had to be bad.  Ralph had _told_ Andrew?  There was a sort of sense to it, he had to admit:  Ralph had always insisted that it was wrong to keep him in the dark like a ... how was it he’d put it? ... a “mid-Victorian virgin”?  It was outrageously high-handed of him to go and tell Andrew himself, of course:  it was Laurie’s place to do so, if he thought right (or not, which he preferred).  On the other hand, it was on a par with other high-handedness:  Laurie remembered Ralph’s decision to speak to Alec about the transfer to Bridstow General, and all that that had led to.

Andrew was looking at him.  What had his face shown?  Laurie drew a deep breath.  “So you know,” he said.

“I know what he _said_.”  Andrew was cautious.  “I wasn’t sure whether to believe him—though I must admit he was _damnably_ convincing.” 

Andrew so seldom swore.

“He wasn’t at all what I was expecting,” he added.  “I mean, I knew who he was as soon as I saw him, in that Navy uniform.  I knew you knew him; you never made any secret of that.  I knew you’d met him again; and that he was your old friend from school.”  He looked blindly at the carved marble.  “But somehow he wasn’t at all the way I’d pictured him.”

And how was that, Laurie wanted to ask:  did you imagine him with dark hair, or short, or moustached?  (No, bearded, he corrected himself.  One was clean-shaven or bearded in the Navy.)

“Slimy!” Andrew said, in anguish.  The outburst shocked him, as much as the word appalled Laurie.

A little stiffly, he said, “Andrew, I realize this has been a surprise to you; but the feelings I have for Ralph, which I appreciate are hard for you to—”

“Please, Laurie, don’t.”  Andrew turned his head away.

“Andrew—” Laurie reached out and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.  With a suppressed shudder, Andrew stood up abruptly and walked away.  He halted by the wall, silent, staring at the close-fitted blocks, his eyes registering the fine neat marks of the chisel on the eternal stone.

Laurie waited.  Clearly the revelation had revulsed Andrew—as how could it not, coming out of the blue from the mouth of a stranger.  What could he say to him?  The wrong thing would be worse than silence. 

“It wasn’t just what he said about the two of you,” Andrew said, in a low voice.  “That was horrible; and I didn’t want to believe it.”  Unseen by Laurie, he bit his lip.  “I couldn’t bear to believe it.”  He turned round.  “So then,”—his voice was low and bitter—“he said I was jealous.”

“Andrew....”

“That was when I hit him.”  Even now, he remembered to keep his voice low. 

“Andrew, he had no right to talk to you.”

“Of course he did!”  Andrew caught himself.  Lower, he added, “The truth is always right.  I needed to know—about you, about him.”

“No, you didn’t.  It wasn’t the right time.”

“What time is right?  I _needed_ to know about myself.”  Andrew was stern with that certainty that Laurie always admired in him.  He hesitated, then came back to sit down rather further away along the pew.  “Did you guess?” he asked. “Did you...?”  He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.  “I’m sorry if I’ve ever been a nuisance to you, Laurie.  I get caught up in things sometimes.  It happened at school once or twice.  Being with you was so ... so much a joy.”

“Yes, to me too.”

Andrew seemed not to have heard.  He went on, sorrowfully, “Too much a joy, I suppose.  I should have seen that it was more to me than a friendship should be.  I can only hope that ... that nothing between us, nothing I said or did, marred our friendship for _you_.  That it was ... innocent ... for you.”

Laurie was stricken.  Innocent?  Yes, but so much more ... in thought and hope, though not in deed.

“As for your friend,” Andrew began; then he paused.  “I’m sorry, Laurie, but I can’t like him as well as you do.  Never mind the _way_ he says he likes you—which I still hope isn’t true.”  He sighed.  “I’m sorry.  He’s _your_ old friend.  This can’t be easy for you to hear.”

No, it’s not, thought Laurie.  Aloud, he said, “I love you as a friend, Andrew.”  There was a nod.  “And, if I love you as more than a friend”—this was met with a strained look—“I’ve never acted on it, or said anything to you about my feelings.  I didn’t think it appropriate.”

“Yes.”

“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”  Cutting my own throat, thought Laurie; but I _can’t_ lie to him.

“And your friend?”

Laurie hesitated, and then prevaricated.  “I’m sorry you didn’t like him.  I’ve always admired him very much.”

Andrew looked incredulous, but held his tongue.

“I think his time in the Merchant Navy sometimes was hard on him,” Laurie added.  “And he joined the Wavy Navy and got his commission, and now he’s beached because of his hand, which is even harder.”

Andrew frowned slightly.

“I’ve met some of his friends:  they vary rather a lot, some are better than others.  On the whole, it’s not my scene:  I think I should tell you that.  What I feel—whether for you or for him—it’s not a lifestyle that I’ve exactly embraced.  Where it’s going to lead me from here on, well that’s something only time can tell.”

He paused.  Andrew didn’t comment.

Doggedly, Laurie went on.  “I can’t say that I’m exactly thrilled by the ... the complications that my life is going to have.  Certainly, I’ve thought of the alternatives.  But then I have to ask myself:  would that be fair?  I mean, I’d be lying to someone; as well as lying to myself, that is.  And I know you believe in the truth:  if I’m going to live the truth, then I have to accept myself for what I am, and make the best of it.  Try to be the best human being I can be, whatever else I happen to be.  If I’m born like this, it isn’t something I can just change because I want to.”

Andrew was looking at him oddly.  “Yes, I do see that,” he said, “at least up to a point.”  He hesitated.  “I’m not sure it’s the same point as yours,” he added, a little apologetically, “but there _is_ a point in there, I’m sure of it.”

Laurie waited, but it seemed that was it.  Andrew looked a little shy, then asked whether he needed to be getting back to the hospital; and Laurie said, no, he was actually supposed to spend time walking to get his muscles used to the boot.  Perversely, it was now that Andrew evinced an interest in architecture, and the two took a tour of the cathedral, examining the monuments and admiring the glass.  As they headed for the entrance, Laurie fumbled in his pocket for a donation and slipped a florin in the box.  Belatedly, Andrew followed suit.

They emerged to find it was dim early twilight.  At this time of year, evening came so quickly; and it had been overcast already.  With a shock, Laurie realized that it must be well past opening time.  Ralph was probably wondering where he was.

“Do you want to go for a drink?” he found himself saying, and could have kicked himself.  This day was awful enough already without making a complete fool of himself.  Andrew probably was longing to get away.

“I’ll walk you back to the hospital,” Andrew said.  “Then I’ll head for the bus.  I’ll have to hang around a bit, but better that than be late.  I still have to pack.”

They walked over College Green, heading towards the hospital.  By now, Laurie was used enough to the new boot that it came as a surprise when Andrew asked if his leg was bothering him.  “You’ll be walking without the cane soon,” Andrew said.  He sounded genuinely happy, which was painfully sweet; and Laurie responded, “You’ll have to come up and visit me when I get back to Oxford.  We can walk round the colleges.” 

They wittered away the walk, chatting as inconsequentially as any pair of tourists who had been visiting the historical sights of Bridstow.  At the entrance to Casualty, Andrew started to say goodbye, awkward and reluctant.  Equally unwilling to part, Laurie suggested that he come up as far as the ward.  “Not that you’ll be allowed in,” he added, “Matron would never allow it outside visiting hours.”  If nothing else, he thought, we can say our farewells in the privacy of the corridor.

By now, the route through the building had become familiar.  He heaved himself slowly up the stone steps under the blue lights, with Andrew beside him.  Although he’d never have said so, he was starting to tire; and, even in the new boot, his leg was aching.  The flights were long; and this was not to be regretted, for it put off their parting.  Still, they came out finally into the upper corridor of the old wing with its Victorian wainscoting that never quite looked clean, and walked the few steps to the door of the ward.

“Well,” Laurie said.

“I should go.”

“Send me your address.  I’ll be sure to write.”

“Yes, I’ll do that.  You, too, when you’re up at Oxford again.”

“Yes.”

There was one of those awkward silences that occurs when both know the conversation has nowhere to go, yet neither wants to leave.  Inside the ward, there was the sound of voices, quiet through the oak door.

“I should go.”

Along the corridor came a pair of doctors.  They passed with a sharp glance, talking about a case.  There was the rattle of a trolley; and steps running up the stone staircase.

“I hope your trip to London is a smooth journey.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will be.”

Behind them, the door at the top of the staircase opened.  Laurie half turned, summoning excuses, expecting to be told briskly that visiting hours were long over.  Then he saw it was Ralph.

“You two have met?” Laurie began.

**Author's Note:**

> “A Fork in the Road to London” was written during the third chapter-by-chapter discussion of Mary Renault's _The Charioteer_ (‘the Unwritten Charioteer’) on the [maryrenaultfics](http://maryrenaultfics.livejournal.com/) LiveJournal community. It was posted there on 21 May 2011. The story was a contribution to the community writing project for Chapter Sixteen: to provide a speculative (AU even) ending for the novel.
> 
> Next: ["Corkscrew"](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/yuletide2014/works/2826017).


End file.
